


Liminal

by thedarlingone (Curuchamion)



Category: Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Comfort Sex, Dimension Travel, Fusion of Star Wars Legends and Disney Canon, Grief/Mourning, Identity Issues, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, PWP, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Selfcest, crossover between Legends canon and Disney canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curuchamion/pseuds/thedarlingone
Summary: Wes's alternate-universe self has had a hell of a week. There's only one solution for this.





	Liminal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icandrawamoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Way Forward](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13262319) by [icandrawamoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth). 



> Thanks to camshaft22 for beta reading and reassurance!

"Well, I think we're about done here," Wedge says, gathering his datapads. "If nobody has anything more to add?"

Wes shakes his head and glances around the briefing room, starting to stretch his hands. He's been typing more or less nonstop for the past six hours, taking minutes for this very unusual debriefing; there's a litter of flimsiplast plates and food wrappers spread across the tabletop, along with datapads and datacards and scribbled diagrams.

Hobbie shakes his head as well. So does the cause of all this, the uncannily familiar man seated next to Wes. Colonel Wes Janson comes from another galaxy, a parallel existence where the New Republic has fallen and a Resistance risen against the Empire's successors; not even he seems to know yet how he's ended up here, Luke's working on that, but he is here, and they've spent most of the day comparing notes on their respective galactic histories.

"I think we're done, then," Tycho says, rising from his seat and starting to gather the trash scattered across the table. "Major, do you want to show our guest around?"

"Sure thing," Wes says, though he's honestly not more than half sure he wants to. He and Colonel Janson have been giving each other awkward sidelong glances all day; it's weird to see yourself from outside, to catch yourselves fidgeting in sync or to recognize the expression you can feel on your own face. He's starting to get self-conscious about it, and of course he can tell that the other man is too.

"I'd be obliged," Colonel Janson says, and they stand up exactly together, shoving their chairs back with a double scrape, and then stop and give each other an apologetic look.

Wes breaks the tension with a grin, jerks his head toward the door and turns to leave. Colonel Janson follows. As they leave, Hobbie catches Wes's eye and gives him a smirk; Wes winks back.

Walking down the halls next to his doppelganger, Wes can feel himself trying to adjust his stride, trying to break the uncanny single rhythm of their footfalls. It's not really working.

"You want to bunk with me tonight?" he suggests. "The grand tour can wait until tomorrow if you want." He's not sure if the Colonel is actually as tired as he looks, or if life in that other galaxy where all his friends are dead has just stamped permanent weariness on his features.

Janson nods. "Yeah, if you don't mind," he says. "It's been a long as hell day."

Wes sidesteps closer to him and slides his arm around his other self's waist as they walk. Colonel Janson automatically slings an arm across his shoulders in return. That's better; now it feels like they're walking in rhythm because they want to, not because they can't stop.

Once they get to Wes's quarters, they let go, and Wes turns to face his doppelganger. "How are you holding up?" he asks.

He knows that guarded expression, the carefully blanked eyes, the polite denial springing to his other self's lips. Wes shushes him with a raised hand. "I know you were putting on a brave face for Wedge and the others," he says. "I know because I would too." Impulsively, he pulls the other man into a quick hug, then draws back to meet his eyes again. "How are you _really_ holding up?"

He can see Janson trying for one more moment to cling to the lie, the instant when the defensive wall cracks. "Not good," Janson admits. Wes pulls him close again, feels him relax a little bit into the hug. "After General Leia," Janson murmurs half to himself, "I'm the top-ranking officer in the entire Resistance. We're the last two surviving Rebels, that we know of." He's… clinging to Wes may be too strong a word, but there's something pleading in the way his arms clutch around Wes's waist. "It's been…" Wes can feel him shake his head. "It's a lot to deal with."

Wes holds his other self tightly, rubbing his back, digging his knuckles into the taut muscles and tendons between the other Wes's shoulder blades. He makes little soothing murmuring noises as he works. "You're doing great," he says softly. "It's okay." At least he knows how to comfort this man, what to say. What he'd want to hear.

After a few moments, Janson sighs and pulls back. "Thanks," he says. He's letting go because he feels like he should, Wes realizes, not because he wants to. The loneliness in those dark eyes isn't masked any more, and it's so vividly painful that Wes leans forward without thinking and kisses him on the lips.

Janson's clearly startled for a moment, but then Wes feels him let himself relax into the kiss. His movements are tentative, hungry, and Wes wants so badly to soothe away the hollow feeling he knows has settled in the other man's chest. He remembers that desperate lost ache, though it's been half a lifetime since Distna -- knowing his closest friends were all dead, wanting to find any comfort he could to distract him for a moment. Wes pulls his other self closer and deepens the kiss.

Finally, they break for air. Janson looks a little more cheerful, something like an actual smile hovering around his mouth. "Wes Janson," he asks, and Wes knows that mischievous tone, "are you propositioning me?"

Wes offers a cheeky grin. "We _could_ just cuddle," he says, knowing his eyes are twinkling with matching mischief. 

Janson sighs, and that inexpressible weariness descends on him again. "Sex would be nice," he admits softly, pulling away from the hug. He sits down on the bed and begins taking off his boots. "I haven't really… had much opportunity, lately."

Wes nods. He gets it. Six hours of typing; he knows that General Leia just lost her husband, or whatever Han Solo was to her in that universe, knows that the rest of the Resistance fighters are people the other Wes personally trained. There's a distance there. He doesn't have anyone who's his equal, or even on a level close to it, the way Wedge and Tycho and Hobbie are for Wes himself.

"Were you and Wedge…?" he asks gently, sitting down next to the other man and starting to take off his own boots.

Janson shrugs, nods. "When we could. He was on Hosnian Prime, I was with the Resistance on whatever base, we didn't get together much." His voice is thick with unshed tears. Wes hates that he's putting him through this.

Finished with his boots, Wes twists around and wraps his other self in another hug. "I'm sorry," he says truthfully.

Janson leans into him and turns his face for another kiss. The edge of desperation in his touch hasn't gone away; if anything, it's gotten stronger. He's not moving things forward, though, just reacting to what Wes does. He feels… resigned, in Wes's arms.

Wes runs his fingers through that familiar curly hair, graying like his own but still fluffy and soft, and considers his options. He breaks the kiss and cups the other Wes's face with one hand, feeling the roughness of stubble against his palm. "How do you want this?" he asks. _Do you want this?_ This Wes may be as close to being himself as another person can be, but they're two separate people, formed by different experiences. He doesn't quite know how to handle that, the copy in his brain almost perfect but not quite.

The other Wes turns his head and kisses Wes's palm, and Wes stifles a little gasp, because _fuck_. That tiny gesture is something he's always found ridiculously hot, and the other Wes _knows_ that. Fuck. They know every one of each other's kinks and preferences. This has the potential to be the best sex of their shared life.

The other Wes's eyes are twinkling now. "Getting some ideas?" he asks.

Wes pulls him into another kiss, fierce instead of gentle now. "A few," he says, pulling back with a grin. Kriff, his pants are way too tight right now. "Strip," he orders playfully.

The other Wes grins too. They stand up together and, by mutual agreement, turn away from each other; watching themselves undress in unison is just way too weird for either one of them.

Once he's naked, Wes turns back to his partner. He steps back and gives him an appreciative once-over, seeing the other man doing the same. He's seen himself in holos and in the mirror, of course, but it's different seeing a warm, solid body in front of him. The other Wes flexes and clasps his hands behind his head, then turns in a circle, showing off a little bit; Wes chuckles and returns the favor. "Damn, we've got a nice butt," he says.

The other Wes's eyes crinkle into laugh lines. "Only one?"

Wes gives him his best devilish, dimpled smirk. "You tell me."

The other Wes laughs and steps forward. They kiss again, pressing their bodies together, bumping arms as they try to reach for each other's asses at the same time. It takes them a moment to sort out whose arms go over and whose under, but then they're kissing hard and fierce, grinding against each other just enough. Those big hands grip Wes's ass just right, and the firm ass under his own hands is unbearably beautiful and perfect. Their kisses grow sloppier, gasps mingling with them, little wordless noises that Wes knows as well as he knows himself. 

Finally, the other Wes pulls back. His eyes are blown wide and dark, his face and body flushed, his thick brown cock as hard and erect as Wes's own. His breathing is fast and messy. "Kriff. Who's on top?" he asks.

Wes wants that beautiful cock in his ass so badly he can feel himself clenching around it, but he's known what he's going to do since the moment he realized so intuitively that they're the same. "I am," he says firmly. "You need this a lot more than I do."

The other Wes's shoulders visibly relax, a tension neither of them had known was there bleeding out of him in a little keening whimper he can't quite smother. "Thank you," he says softly, and Wes knows he understands.

Wes gets out the protectives and lubricant while the other man kneels on the foot of the bed, curls over, rests his forehead on his crossed arms. Damn, they really do have a nice ass between them. Wes may prefer being fucked to being the one doing the fucking, but it's not like taking himself for a ride is going to be a chore.

He rolls a protective onto his cock, arching and groaning a little bit at the touch. Sithspit, he's so hard. He doesn't know if he can hold back from coming long enough to give Colonel Janson what he needs, but he knows he's going to try. 

He cups and squeezes his partner's buttocks, kneading them a little, enjoying the soft whimpers he's drawing from his partner. From what Janson's said, he hasn't been touched by a lover in a while, and Wes wants to make this as good as possible for him. He traces one thumb gently over the man's tight little opening and feels him clench.

"You okay?" Wes asks gently. For all that they may be identical in so many ways, they're still different people.

Janson groans softly. "I need it," he says. Wes hears what he isn't saying -- that he's having trouble relaxing for someone who isn't Wedge, after they've been each other's whole worlds for so long.

Wes rubs gently at his partner's lower back, just above his tailbone, trying to help him relax. "You're doing so well," he soothes him, words that usually come from Tycho or Wedge, tumbling easily from his lips. "It's okay, I've got you." He bends down and presses a kiss at the base of his spine. 

Janson sighs, frustrated. "It's weird," he admits, his voice a little odd from his upside-down posture. "I feel like I'm controlling you. You do whatever I want as soon as I think of it, and you'd expect that to be good, but it's _weird_."

Wes chuckles. "Would you rather I do something else?"

Janson shrugs. It makes the muscles of his broad back move in a very pleasing way. "I'm not sure what else you could do, really."

Wes runs his hand up and down Janson's back, caressing him, thinking. "You want to take it on your back?" he suggests. "So you can see me?"

Janson shakes his head. Wes didn't really expect him to take that offer; for some reason, they feel oddly vulnerable lying back to be fucked. Bending over has always felt more… right, somehow. "It just feels like a dream," Janson says, the want and the unease in his voice contrasting oddly with one another.

"So take it as a dream," Wes suggests. "Don't bother wanting anything. Just let go. I'll be right here, let me take care of everything." He's not very good at this, at taking charge and making himself feel safe and protected. It's not a role he's ever wanted or had much practice at. But he'll be damned if he'll let this man, who might have been himself, who _is_ himself under other circumstances, feel so painfully alone when he has it in him to help.

"It feels so shallow, doesn't it?" he muses, thinking back twenty-five years, letting his hands wander over his other self's body as he ponders. "Needing it like this. We have two perfectly good hands." He'd struggled after Distna, alone. He could take care of his physical urges easily enough, but his emotional needs were not so quickly attended to. 

"Each," Janson points out dryly.

"Each," Wes agrees with a little chuckle. "But it's about the connection. We need other people."

Janson lets out a ragged, stressed little sigh and rolls over on his side, looking up at Wes. "Maybe that's the trouble," he says. "We're not other people."

Wes blinks, a little startled. He supposes that's true, really. He hadn't thought of it that way. "Do you want one of the others?" he asks. "They felt like you might be most comfortable with me, but…"

Janson gives him an unimpressed look. "I get the feeling I'm being handled."

Wes shakes his head. "It's not like that. I mean, yeah, maybe a little, but…" He sits down next to Janson. "We could just cuddle," he offers again.

Janson shakes his head too. "No, you're right, I need this. I just -- I keep thinking about when I go back, if I go back."

"Not having anybody again?" Wes asks.

"Yeah. I… they're not _my_ Wedge, or my Hobbie. I never even knew Tycho. And you're… you know, you're not one of them, so I thought it might work better, but we're -- I don't know. If we're too close, or I'm just still missing Wedge too much, or what it is."

"I can't do what he did for you," Wes admits, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, you know that. We probably couldn't be that dominant if we tried all year. But I want to help."

The other Wes nods. "And I really do want you to dick me down until I forget my name. It's just… tricky, letting go when he's not here to catch me."

Kriff, Wes knows that feeling so much. "I promise," he says, taking Janson's hand. "I may not be him, but I promise I will catch you."

Janson nods again. He cranes his neck up a little, asking for another kiss, and Wes tugs on his hand and they scramble up the bed together until they're lying full length, entwined, kissing and claiming each other's bodies with their hands. Wes doesn't force himself to act dominant this time, just gives himself over to the experience.

"We have all night," Janson murmurs when they're close again, and Wes knows what he means. They may not have the kind of stamina they did when they were younger, but they've developed more patience now. They don't have to make the first time perfect; they can wait for the second and the third, cuddling, murmuring affectionate little jokes and stories into each other's skin and hair. They have time.


End file.
